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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/22841434">Roll Here in My Ashes</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/ObliObla/pseuds/ObliObla'>ObliObla</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Obli's Fuckruary 2020 [18]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Lucifer (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, F/M, Fuckruary 2020 (Lucifer TV), Oral Sex, Post s04e05: Expire Erect, Smut</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-02-22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-02-22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-04-28 15:48:10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>889</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/22841434</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/ObliObla/pseuds/ObliObla</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>And this—this acceptance, this desire—this is what <i>he</i> needs, no matter what uncertainties lurk in the shadowy corners of his mind.</p>
<p>He’s thinking too much again.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Eve/Lucifer Morningstar (Lucifer TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Obli's Fuckruary 2020 [18]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1619344</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>58</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Roll Here in My Ashes</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Day 18! Prompt: Don't Stop/Overstimulation</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Eve is sucking Lucifer’s cock, and his body thrums with it. Her hot hands are stroking, cupping, encouraging him as his hips buck off the bed. Her long hair is piled over his waist, trailing down his thighs, and he runs his fingers through it. In Eden he brushed twigs and leaves from its softness, showing her how to tease it into a braid to keep it off her face, or else watching as it splayed out over the dark grass in shining waves. Now, he buries his hands in it, searching for some kind of stability as she hums around him, taking him deeper. Her lips purse, her tongue flicks against him, and he moans for it.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She was never this sure before, never possessed of so much pure intent. Her desires were tentative, unformed things before he asked, and in the asking they found them together.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Now, she doesn’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>ask </span>
  </em>
  <span>for what she wants, she takes it, pressing her nose into his pelvis until the head of his cock slides into her throat, sucks harder and harder until he can scarcely breathe. She hungers for it, for </span>
  <em>
    <span>him,</span>
  </em>
  <span> in a way that is both flattering and terrifying. Never has he felt so keenly like an addiction, like a means to some unrelated end.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But he has never been one to lose the sweetness of pleasure in the bitterness of pain, and he pushes all of that aside to give himself to her, body and soul, as he did in the garden. As he, perhaps, always will. His release, when it comes, is almost harsh, leaving his mouth with a taste like gall; but it is also as honey under his tongue, and it is this which he clings to. It is this he always clings to.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She sits up, wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, and smirks knowingly. She grabs his spent cock, jerking him roughly enough that were he mortal he’d be bleeding. “Come on,” she mutters, twisting at the end of her strokes. He’s still so sensitive his breaths come out as whines, but he doesn’t want her to stop. He doesn’t want it to ever stop.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He bucks his hips into her motion, and when he’s hard again—too fast yet not nearly fast enough—she straddles him without circumstance. She lines them up and sinks onto him with one smooth motion and doesn’t give either of them time to adjust before she’s grinding against him on every stroke. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His hands are on her hips, but he’s not guiding her, merely letting her take what she wants, hoping it’s also what she needs. And this—this acceptance, this desire—this is what </span>
  <em>
    <span>he </span>
  </em>
  <span>needs, no matter what uncertainties lurk in the shadowy corners of his mind.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He’s thinking too much again.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There is a gorgeous woman in his lap, on his cock—she’s always liked it on top, ever since she came to know it was something she was allowed to like—and there’s such exquisite joy in seeing pleasures being fulfilled. He meets her motions with his own thrusts until her breaths hitch in her chest and her wide, dark eyes finally flutter shut. She has always been so beautiful when she comes.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He flips them, lengthens his strokes until her aftershocks begin to build into a new fall, her inner muscles never ceasing their rhythmic clenching. Her heavy breaths turn to soft moans, and there is an almost vicious satisfaction in her gaze. It reminds him of someone he used to be; it reminds him of someone he’d rather forget. He turns away from it, burying his face in her neck, speeding up until there is no more room for thought or concern. There are only bodies entwined in animal bliss. There is only a garden, a man, a woman.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>When she comes again, back arching, a needy whine leaving her mouth, he tries to slow, to cradle her in his arms and watch her fall apart. But even in the depths of her pleasure she hooks her legs behind his back and drags him into her again. He pants against her neck, hips snapping faster and faster. She’s so hot and wet and clenching around him, and he’s... and he’s...</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>In his more introspective moments, he likens the instant of orgasm to the creation of the universe. Suddenly, from nothing, there is light—and it is more beautiful than the finest, fiery star. But in this moment there is nothing but a vibrating emptiness in his mind, a dark void of </span>
  <em>
    <span>yes </span>
  </em>
  <span>and </span>
  <em>
    <span>please </span>
  </em>
  <span>and </span>
  <em>
    <span>don’t stop.</span>
  </em>
  <span> And it is sweeter than Creation, is so much kinder than all that blinding light. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But when he comes back to himself, he is alone on the bed. He lies there, surrounded by sweaty sheets, by grimy towels, by her, her, </span>
  <em>
    <span>her.</span>
  </em>
  <span> He doesn’t rise, even as the shower flicks on from down the hallway. Moving in any way seems like anathema; if he stands, he fears something might shatter. Perhaps he’s Samson, and she’s finally managed to cut his hair. Perhaps she’s Eurydice, calling him down into the darkness of the underworld. He glances up at the ceiling, at his reflection, waiting in that darker glass for whatever judgment he’ll be allowed. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>In Eden the only mirror was the river.</span>
</p>
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